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Still Life With Crumbs on Plate

Strewn along the edges
Of a paper plate, the crumbs,
Flaky brown monuments
To a consumed crust,
Mar the plate’s pure surface,
Interrupting the endless sea of white
With speckles of brown.
The plate is a lake; the crumbs
Sailboats, gathering before a race,
Preparing to cut through the vast
Sea of recycled and bleached newspaper.
Or perhaps the plate is a snowbank,
The crumbs drops of urine,
Left by a mischievous child
Whose mother calls him in before he can deftly
Paint his name in the snow.
Or the plate could be a desert;
The crumbs a group of
Very lost tourists.
Maybe the plate is a memory,
The crumbs the demons of time and age,
Slowly eating away at the treasured thought,
Corrupting it, rendering it
Forever forgotten.
Perhaps the plate is a mind,
The crumbs those malevolent flecks
Of disease that eventually cause one
To go mad.
Or maybe I’m the mad one,
Because I could be studying right now
And it’s just some crumbs on a plate.

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